


All the Things that Sleep Beneath

by partofthedisease



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Demon Shane Madej, Demons, Enemies to Friends, Exorcisms, Ft. a dash of social commentary bc the church is so corrupt may i pls get an amen, Gen, Paranormal Investigator Ryan Bergara, Pastor Shane Madej, The author barely understands how her own religion works but she tried anyway, heavy religious themes, that's right folks it's a double whammy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-01-07 01:38:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18400523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partofthedisease/pseuds/partofthedisease
Summary: There's something off about Shane Madej, small town pastor-slash-miracle worker from Illinois. Maybe it's his unconventional practices, maybe it's his vague past. Or maybe it's something that can't be seen on the surface. One thing is for certain, the reverend schtick is a just a guise to fool the unsuspecting.Ryan Bergara has never been one to be fooled.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"And Jesus went into the temple of God, and cast out all them that sold and bought in the temple, and overthrew... the seats of them that sold doves..."_
> 
>  
> 
> Matthew 21:12

If Ryan Bergara has learned anything in his few years of paranormal investigating, it's that you should not trust what looks harmless. 

_Harmless._ A word that has surely led to the fatality of millions. Places that appear harmless are notorious for hiding the most sinister of secrets, as Ryan has come to learn. Grisly murders, for example, seem to always occur in small getaway cottages, where poor, unsuspecting _Wilderness Family-_ types get sliced and diced in their sleep. Aliens are known for abducting farmers from remote ranches and sucking their brains out through a straw. Restless spirits have a habit of lurking in local bed-and-breakfasts and fucking with the thermostat while you're trying to sleep. 

(Okay, so maybe that last one is a personal beef with a particular ghost.)

Ryan's latest investigation is painfully mediocre. Granted, a haunted B&B in the middle of rural Illinois doesn't necessarily scream “evidence,” but he had still remained hopeful despite the fact. And the trip hadn't been a _complete_ flop. There was the thermostat- the one that enjoyed rising and falling ten degrees throughout the night at Ryan's expense; that must have counted for _something_. But at the end of the day, even that was open ended. 

Ryan doesn't like open ended. He likes irrefutable, things that can be caught on film or circled in red. Lately his investigations have been lacking in red, and, well, it's a bit disheartening for Ryan. Some cases are fated to be buried in time, to remain unsolved, but damn, does he wish the Fates would throw him a bone. Give him a reward for rooting for the underdogs of the paranormal world for once.

Plane tickets from SoCal to the Midwestern United States aren't cheap, and Ryan will be damned if he returns from this trip with nothing to share with his followers but some thermal readings and a video of him cursing at a thermostat. So he does some research and throws a metaphorical decision dart. 

It's a small town, a mere speck on the state map of Illinois that looks about as interesting as a coffee stain, but Ryan has hope. There is some truth to the term "sleepy town-" there is almost always something below the surface, stirring in sleep, and Ryan, anxious as he may be, wants to be the one that awakens it. 

As he finds himself standing on the neatly trimmed lawn of a place called the “First Church of Miracles,” Ryan has the sinking feeling that he is about to poke the bear.

A bit of background on the church: it hasn't been around for very long. In fact, Ryan had been unable to find any information about the "First Church of Miracles" from before circa 2010. It doesn't seem like a cult, however, nor does it seem to have any ulterior motives to its teachings, but from stories shared by members of its congregation, what occurs there can only be described as "extraordinary."

There are about a dozen reports from people who claim to have been cleansed, cured, and exorcised through the workings of a single man, one Rev. Shane Madej. Even stranger, no information on Shane Madej had surfaced on the internet until his church did. He apparently has no previous experience in religious teachings, and his occupations before his time as a pastor are also unknown. It seems as though Shane had only sprung into existence once his church had. 

It's time for Ryan to find out why. And, more importantly, how this so-called "miracle worker" does his job. 

Tall sycamore trees bend inward and surround the church, shrouding the building like a cloak. Ryan looks upward and sees a perfect, cloudless circle of sky. The church itself is small, save for its steeple, which seems to rise to the heavens like the Tower of Babel. Its exterior is a picket-fence white. Its windows, in stark contrast, are blood-red stained glass. _How quaint,_ Ryan thinks, shivering. 

Gravel crunches in the distance, and Ryan can see cars from behind the trees as they make the long, winding trek up the road. Ryan curses mentally- he'd been hoping for at _least_ a half hour of privacy before people began to arrive for church service. Quickly, he rummages in his bag and pulls out his handheld to snap a few pictures for the blog. 

_Click!_ The marquee-style sign, its foreboding message about the “end times” made less intimidating by its missing letters. 

_Click!_ The two wooden crosses standing on either sides of the entrance, as if guarding the building, protecting those that enter and warding off evil. 

_Click!_ The graveyard, all greening headstones and shrubbery, that makes Ryan wonder how a weathered cemetery this old-looking could belong to a church this new. 

He's scaled the perimeter and is about to enter the church when his camera, poised on the open double doors, captures a blurry image of a tall figure in the corridor. Ryan does a double take and jolts up. There is a man standing in the doorway.

"Well, hold on, now." The man strides toward him, and Ryan recognizes him almost immediately. The blue collared shirt tucked into iron-pressed khaki pants is far from formal religious attire, but Shane Madej wears them with an air of friendly professionalism. 

"No need to be jumpy, there, friend," he says, smiling warmly. "Now, I'm usually good with faces, but yours has me drawing a blank. Something tells me you're not a regular member of our congregation." He sticks out his hand. "Shane Madej; I'm the man behind this whole operation."

"Ryan Bergara. And you would be right." Ryan grins and accepts the handshake, "but I'm not exactly here for fellowship today, actually. I heard you specialize in exorcisms? And, uh, miracles?" 

Shane nods slowly. "That's what I'm known for," he says. He looks Ryan up and down. "Have you got an, uh... a demon problem that needs taking care of?"

"Oh, no, that's not-" Ryan laughs, waving his camera in gesture. "I'm a paranormal investigator. I was in the neighborhood, and when I heard about your church... I mean, it just sounded so _peculiar._ I've never heard of anything like it before."

Shane raises an eyebrow. Ryan's hands go clammy; he is babbling. Quickly he adds, “I'm just curious about your practices- y'know, how things are generally done here? If it's okay with you, I figured I'd sit in and watch a master at work, maybe take some videos, interview you if possible."

The skeptic look refuses to leave Shane's eyes. "A little unorthodox, but by all means, be my guest," he says at last. "Mr, ah..."

"Bergara."

"Word to the wise, Mr. Bergara." Shane lowers his voice as churchgoers begin milling through the doors, waving their polite hellos, oblivious to their pastor's sudden change in tone, "what we do here- what _I_ do here- it's not like what you see in movies, alright? No glitz and glamour about miracle work. We take things very seriously, so I suggest you enter with an open mind."

"Open mind is my middle name." 

 

Ryan sits in the back of the church where the people are scarce, so as to not disrupt the Sunday routine. Maybe he's just not the religious type, but he finds the God-fearing crowd to be a little kooky. The thin-haired woman next to him is staring at her lap, her lips moving rapidly in an inaudible prayer. Letting his gaze snag momentarily, Ryan notices her fingers, clad with a wedding band and clasped atop a bible, are bone white at the knuckle. 

The others in his row eye him in quizzical annoyance as he pulls his camcorder from his bag and begins setting up. He's trying to figure out where he should sit the tripod when Shane strides across the stage. 

A hush falls over the room.

Ryan's hands freeze in midair, and he watches as Shane scratches at his mustache briefly, removes the mic from the podium, and smiles. "Mornin', everybody, how are we doing today?"

The first part of the service is admittedly droll. They sing a short hymn. Ryan joins in, his own voice lost in the tinny vibrato of the elderly women around him. Afterwards is the sermon, where Shane starts off with an anecdote about "that one time I bought gas station sushi" that is somehow tied together with a lesson on learning to appreciate God's little gifts. "Like not," Shane concludes, "having to get my stomach pumped after all." 

Everyone applauds. Upon a glance, Ryan notices the eyes of the people around him begin to sharpen, focusing more intently on the stage. They lean forward almost simultaneously, the wooden pews uttering a collective hiss that echoes in the air. 

"Now, I think we all know what time it is," Shane says, and the room fills with excited murmur. "I also know we have some guests who have joined with us today, so if you were wondering when the fun part begins..." From across the church, Shane's eyes latch onto Ryan's with a twinkle. "This is it."

The people jump to their feet, cheering and waving their hands wildly as Shane steps down from the stage and begins weaving his way through the pews. Ryan stands hesitantly, craning his neck to see the action. He can make out a figure nearing his pew, closer, closer, until it reaches out and grabs the hand of the woman next to him. He blinks, and Shane is leading her down the aisle. 

She weeps as she staggers onto the stage, cheeks shining, wobbly smile wet with tears. She almost topples over as Shane embraces her tightly. "Tell me what ails you, miss," he says. 

"My husband and I," she begins, tears choking her voice. "We're so deeply in love, and I want so badly to start a family with him. But..." She breaks off into sobs, cradling her face in her trembling hands.

Shane bends to her level, grabbing her wrists gently. "It's okay," he shushes her, and Ryan watches, in awe, as the woman's crying ceases almost immediately. "What's troubling you?"

"Two miscarriages," she blurts, sniffing. Louder, she adds, "it's a _curse,_ Reverend, I swear it is."

Ryan blinks when the absurdity of the words hits. _Hold the fucking phone..._

"I definitely sense a presence in your life- something with evil intentions." Shane places his hands on either sides of the woman's head, rubbing circles into her temples with his thumbs.

The woman looks _livid_. Her eyes widen in terror and she sways as though she might faint. "Evil," she murmurs, and Shane nods.

"It's a demon, alright," he concludes. "I can feel it deep within you, and you've gotta help me get it out." Shane turns to the crowd and says, loudly, "You all have to help me get it out!"

They cheer. Ryan leans forward, eyes narrowed. Who needs audience participation for an exorcism?

"Demon!" shouts Shane, loud enough that Ryan can feel it in his chest. Shane shakes the woman by her shoulders vigorously, her head lolling to the side like a rag doll's as she stares at him, mouth agape. 

"You are not welcome here," he continues, "not in this vessel, and certainly not in the house of God. I know you're angry, big guy. I'd be, too, if I had nothing better to do with my life than prey on dull, innocent mortals. But my friends here are pretty upset over your actions, and I think they've got a few choice words for demon scum like you." He gestures to the crowd, and, in an instant, the quiet little rows of churchgoers have become riled waves of unbridled anger. 

Ryan has never seen anger like this before. 

"Come on," Shane mutters, forehead vein throbbing like it wants to escape his body. "Cmoncmoncmon, what, are you _scared?_ Huh?" His voice gets deeper, rougher. "If you don't leave this vessel, oh, I'll give you something to fear. I guarantee it."

"Oh," the woman moans, fanning herself with her hands as though she might faint, "oh, my head. My head hurts." 

Shoved out of his daze, Ryan's fingers quickly fumble to hit record on his camera. Through the screen he watches Shane reach under the cuff of his sleeve to reveal a bracelet of wooden beads, the silver charm of a cross dangling tauntingly. The woman's eyes widen at the sight. She falls to her knees, and the moment she hits the floor Shane presses firmly to her forehead the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.

"Demon," he cries out, "I command you, depart from this body!"

And as quickly as it had begun, it's over. 

The people applaud as though they've just witnessed a lovely assistant get sawed in half. Shane offers his hand to the woman, who wobbles to her feet and leaps to embrace him.

_That can't be it. That can't be all there is._

"How 'bout that, huh!" Shane exclaims, shaking the woman's hand. "The power of Christ is really, truly something. As always, donations make our Lord and savior _very_ happy, and go toward making our miracle of a church the best it can possibly be, so we're just gonna pass around our collection plate before we sing our final hymn." Shane claps his hands together in front of his waist. "We urge everyone to try and donate what they can, but, of course, our merciful God understands if you are unable to help out."

An usher helps the woman down the steps and back to the pew. She sneezes as she sits down, and the noise echoes throughout the church. A chorus of "bless you's" arise from the pews, and she smiles sheepishly and rummages through her purse for a tissue. Her eyes catch Ryan's stare, and she stares back, hard. He suddenly feels small under her scrutinizing gaze.

"No 'bless you?'" she asks, tilting her head. Her voice is calm yet there is a malicious bite to her words that does not go unnoticed. 

"Ah-" Ryan hesitates. "Sorry, I don't believe in doing that." He attempts a polite smile despite her shocked expression. "The whole 'bless you' thing," he continues, "there's really no meaning behind it, actually. In, uh, in early centuries people believed that when you sneezed there were evil spirits trying to escape your body, so they thought saying it would ward them off- like, like a good luck charm of sorts. Which, y'know, made sense back then. Obviously modern science would disagree."

The woman's eyes go cold. Ryan adds quickly, "We're actually the one of the only ones who say 'God bless you.' English-speakers, I mean. In most other cultures, the norm is saying 'good health,' which, if you asked me, makes much more sense-"

"Non-believer!" The woman leaps to her feet, and all eyes flit in their direction like floodlights. She points an accusatory finger at Ryan, "He doesn't believe in demons!" 

From across sea of pews, Shane's eyes latch onto Ryan's. Ryan raises his hands in defense. "Okay, pause, I didn't said anything _remotely_ like that! But you know what, I am calling horsefeathers on all of this, man."

He sweeps his arms out, glaring at Shane as he speaks. "This whole... _thing_ you've got going on here, it's fake,” he says. “These people are coming to you for insight, for healing, a-and they're giving their money away to a, to a _fraud!"_

The whole church explodes in an uproar. Women shriek at him, spitting threats till their faces go blotchy red, and a couple of men stand up and shrug off their blazers, rolling up shirt sleeves in case things get physical.

Ryan isn't afraid of a few middle class Jesus freaks. He ignores the commotion, glaring straight ahead at Shane, who acknowledges him with a smug smile. He raises his hands, palms facing the crowd, and the people go silent as if commanded by some invisible force. 

Ryan swallows, glare wavering.

"You know- I knew you'd be trouble the minute I saw you," Shane nods to himself, "the _minute_ I saw you. Ryland, right?"

 _"Ryan._ Ryan Bergara."

"Well, Ryan. Since you seem eager to express your opinion toward this place- toward _me-_ why don't you come up to the podium and share your views with us?" 

The eyes that glare from around the hall dare him to do otherwise.

Slowly, Ryan side-steps out of the pew and walks toward the stage, each footstep echoing off the walls. He feels like a criminal on death row. Shane offers a handshake once he reaches the podium, which Ryan declines as he cranes his neck to reach the microphone.

"So, Ryan." Shane claps. "Tell us why you don't believe in demons."

"I never said I didn't believe in them." Ryan pans the room as he adjusts the mic, trying to gain some form of trust from his audience. "My job- I'm a paranormal investigator, for Christ's sake, it's my _job_ to believe. I've seen demons with my own two eyes."

"Seen them?" Shane asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Well- well, not _seen,_ no." Ryan scratches the back of his neck. "Demons are fickle entities. They're difficult to catch on film, even with the most high-tech equipment." Shane nods in agreement. "I've had less than a handful of them interact with me before by physical means, and on a normal day I'm lucky if I can get a simple audio recording." 

"So evidence is scarce," Shane concludes.

"Yeah," says Ryan, "that's one way to put it."

Shane turns to face his audience, a smile playing on his lips. "So seeing isn't always believing, then," he says loudly. The crowd murmurs in mutual agreement, and a couple people stand up to clap. 

"Wha-" Ryan frowns. "Well, yeah, obviously, but-"

The glint in Shane's eyes is mischievous. "Mr. Bergara," he says, and Ryan's blood simmers at the realization that Shane is enjoying himself at Ryan's expense, “I think you're being a little hypocritical. Now, we might not have your fancy para-whatever technology, but here at the First Church of Miracles we rely solely on the resources Jesus Christ has given me to deliver these people from sin, and protect them from evil." 

A chorus of cheers erupts from the church, and that is the last straw for Ryan. "Did Jesus also tell you to take advantage of these people's religious gullibility?" he questions angrily.

The room goes silent.

Shane stares at Ryan for what must be the most uncomfortable thirty seconds of his life. Ryan's blood runs cold; his heart stumbles over every other beat. The churchgoers, too, seem to grasp the severity of the situation. They hold a collective breath with the stillness of stone statues in a cemetery. The only words spoken are by the rafters, which seem to creak in a hushed, secretive whisper.

"He told me," Shane says, and Ryan swears he sees the light vanish from Shane's pupils, "that you made a mistake coming here."

And then Shane claps, _claps,_ as though he hadn't threatened Ryan only seconds earlier. "Well, now, I think we can all agree that this place of worship is also a place of tolerance, so any act of violence directed toward Mr. Ryan Bergara will have to be done off property," he says jokingly, and the church gives a lighthearted laugh. "That being said, how 'bout a hand for Mr. Bergara, huh? It took true guts to get up here and speak his mind like that."

They yield with light applause (with the exception of a few dispersed "boos" from the crowd.) Ryan opens his mouth to "speak his mind" a second time, when Shane lays a hand on his shoulder. His grip is too firm to be friendly as he mutters, "Wait out in the lobby. I'd like to talk to you after the service lets out."

Ryan stares at him, dread filling his stomach, and feels as though he has no choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been in the works for about a year now. It's gone through some heavy revisions, and it's grown and matured as I've grown and matured as an author. Originally, I intended for this to be a long oneshot, but I decided it looked better divided into parts.
> 
> I'm really proud of this one. Hope you guys enjoy :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“Watch out for false prophets... By their fruit you will recognize them. Do people pick grapes from thornbushes, or figs from thistles?"_  
>  Matthew 7:15-16

The service ends at noon. Once the church finally clears, Shane meets Ryan in the lobby. Ryan doesn't even give Shane the chance to open his mouth to speak. 

"Don't think I don't know what you're up to here," he says lowly. Ironically, he finds it difficult to raise his voice now that the church is empty. "This kind of operation, you could get thrown in jail for the shit you're pulling."

Shane raises his hands in defense. "Providing a service to people in need," he says, brows raised in surprise, "would get me thrown in jail?"

"No," says Ryan, and he smiles bitterly as he crosses the foyer, "but false advertising might. Or how about theft by fraud?" He folds his arms across his chest as he glares up at Shane. "The jig's up, asshole; I can't think of one good reason not to turn you into the police right now."

Shane gazes down at him. "I've got one," he says.

"Oh, yeah?" 

"Yeah. You didn't get your interview yet."

"My-" Ryan is incredulous. "Are you nuts? What makes you think I want to interview you after _that?"_ he demands. “What could I possibly have to gain from an interview with a fake?" 

Shane smiles and says, "You might find something you didn't know you were looking for."

They sit down in the church library. It's small and stuffy, with a long window that looks out into the sanctuary. Rows of worn bibles peer out from within their wooden shelves. The carpet pattern is an ugly red paisley. The air smells stale, and the furniture- two ancient looking bergere chairs and a small coffee table in between- is covered in a thin layer of dust.

Ryan sits across from Shane, tape recorder in hand, and runs his fingers through his hair. "I'm just gonna say this now,” he says. “Once we're done here this interview is going on every supernatural and religious forum on the internet, and the news, and any other platform I can find, and I'm gonna expose you for the fraud you are. Just a warning.”

Shane smiles and leans back, draping a twiggy leg over his knee. "Well, expose away, then."

Ryan hits record, and the tape recorder clicks to life. "How long would you say you've been doing this, Mr. Madej?" He grits his teeth and forces himself to sound professional, glaring Shane down all the while. "You know. Exorcisms and miracles, I mean."

Shane nods thoughtfully, scratching the coarse fuzz of his chin. "A few years now, I'd say."

"And when did you first realize you wanted to pursue this occupation?"

"Oh, I didn't choose it." Shane smiles again, a flash of alarmingly white teeth. " _I_ was chosen."

"Oh, you mean like- like you were anointed." Ryan's foot goes tap-tap-tap and mimics the throbbing of the vein in his forehead. 

"That's right."

"So God came to you in a dream and said something along the lines of, 'Hey, here's an idea- why not scam a ton of people-'"

"I really think," Shane begins, leaning forward until he is eye to eye with Ryan, "that you could learn a thing or two about not making assumptions, Mr. Bergara." 

"But is there something I'm missing, though?" Ryan snaps. "I know you're not actually performing miracles in there like you advertise. Anyone with eyes and half a brain should be able to see that. So tell me, Shane 'Miracle' Madej, what the _fuck_ is your game here?"

Shane's gaze snaps like tinder set aflame. "Turn the tape recorder off," he growls.

"Are you fucking kidding me? Like hell, man, this is-"

“You want answers? You need to turn it off. Now." 

Ryan bites his lip. "No more interrogations," Shane goes on. "If you want the truth, you're gonna have to leave your fanbase or whatever out of this."

The tape recorder crackles away, hanging onto every breath. With reluctance, Ryan jams his thumb into the STOP button. Shane eases back into his chair and exhales through his nose. 

"Can I just ask one question?" says Ryan. "Just one?"

Shane nods. 

"Why?" 

"You wanna know something about those people, Ryan?" Shane asks. "God bless 'em, but their souls are lost. They aren't here for repentance, or worship. They're not here to praise the Lord. They come here because what they want is easy solutions. When problems arise in their lives, they don't want to have to lift a _finger._ They want to quit smoking but can't go cold turkey; they want to find true love but aren't willing to look for it; they want... _so_ much, yet refuse to work for any of it. So what do they do? They blame every little inconvenience on demons. Curses. The devil."

He smiles grimly, sweeping his arms out in gesture. "And then they come here, where a man can tap them on the head, give them that easy solution to all their problems and send 'em on their merry way."

 _Unbelievable._ Ryan shakes his head. "Something wrong?" Shane asks. 

"Sorry, I'm just trying to wrap my head around something here."

"And that would be?"

"How the _hell_ do you sleep at night."

"On the floor, one pillow, window cracked open _just_ a tad. It does wonders for the back, actually."

Ryan cards a hand through his hair. _"Fucking_ sicko," he breathes. "And all those people... y-you just let them fall for your shit like that-"

"God helps those who help themselves," Shane says with a shrug. 

"Oh, Jesus Christ, they're _desperate,"_ Ryan snaps. "They're seeking solace in your words, but your words don't do jack shit." He throws his hands out, laughing sourly. "A-and what's more, you treat exorcism like it's a fucking game! Demons could really fuck your shit up if you let them, man, and you're playing with some serious fire." 

It's Shane's turn to laugh. _"I_ know nothing about demons? They could fuck _my_ shit up?" His eyes are wide, mouth open in a smile of disbelief. "I can't- wow. I can't believe this. You're an _amateur,_ Ryan. Okay? You're allowed to go around in your little Mystery Machine, sprinkling salt circles everywhere and cursing at shadows. I sure as hell won't stop you." His stare turns cold, and he jabs a finger at Ryan, "but don't you _dare_ come into my church and tell me how to run things."

Ryan makes a noise of indignation. "Fuck you, man, I have plenty of evidence," he says.

"Right. Evidence." Shane rolls his eyes. "Did all the clocks stop in your house during the witching hour, Ryan?" he taunts. "Didja, what, didja see a book fall off its shelf when no one touched it? 'Cause- and no offense- that's not real evidence; it's coincidence that your wired little brain misinterprets as proof."

"You wanna talk evidence? 'Cause I didn't see a lick of it during that little performance you gave earlier." Ryan is fuming. He stands, glaring down at Shane. "Prove to me you're not a fake."

Shane raises a brow.

"I know what you do in front of those people is all smoke and mirrors," Ryan continues, "and you know it, too. After this morning, I don't have any reason to believe you were anointed at _all,_ let alone that you're an ordained minister. But if you really are who you say you are- the, the fucking 'chosen one' or whatever the fuck- show me something that'll prove me wrong."

Shane scratches at his chin, hemming and hawing.

"That is," Ryan adds pointedly, "if you don't have anything to hide."

The silence makes a comeback, as heavy as it had been during the church service, and with the newfound intensity of two forces at odds with each other. 

"I gotta hand it to ya, Bergara," Shane says at last, "you're pretty bold for someone who totes a little camcorder around a church and calls it paranormal investigating."

Ryan tilts his chin up a little, stares Shane down. 

"How about a little wager, huh? How 'bout we make a deal?" 

"I'm listening."

"You seem to think you're well-versed in the world of the supernatural. What would be a deal-breaker for you?" Shane asks. "What would prove to world-renowned paranormal investigator Ryan Bergara that I'm the real deal?"

The ball is in Ryan's court now, he realizes. "Demons," he says, without missing a beat, "I want to see demons."

"Consider it done."

"W- huh?" 

"You want to see some demons, I can make that happen."

Ryan narrows his eyes. "And if you can't prove shit?" he asks.

Shane laughs. "Then expose me," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Get your cameras on me and tell the world what a scheming hack I am." 

Something is off, Ryan thinks. Shane is much too calm and collected to be someone with no aces up his sleeves.

Then Shane's expression goes sober and he sits up, hands clasped between his knees, adding, "I'll even shut down my church. The whooole kit and caboodle. How's that sound?"

"Like a trap," Ryan counters. "What happens if you prove _me_ wrong?"

"Just leave me and my church be.”

“That- that's it?"

“All I want is to do my job in peace, Mr. Bergara. I've got a good thing going here. My income is steady, I have a loyal following- you're the only thorn in my side. If getting you out of my hair means snapping my fingers and making some demons appear, then so be it," Shane says. He shakes his head, smiling almost to himself. "I don't think you know what you're asking for, though. It won't be pretty. These things rarely ever are."

"I can handle whatever you throw at me," Ryan bites back. 

Shane raises his eyebrows, nonplussed. Finally, he slaps his knees decidedly and stands. 

"Alright, then,” he says, “here's a word to the wise. You said earlier that demons are fickle entities- and they are, truly, they are. They're not like other creatures. They aren't going to humor you 'for the good of the supernatural,' or whatever, and they're not gonna make small talk with you because you want to know their life story, either. They're angry, okay, they're fucking pissed- so the only way you're gonna get a real, genuine response out of them is if you give them a reason to get restless." 

"So, how- okay, since you're so educated on this sort of thing, how would one go about doing that, exactly?" Ryan feels his palms go slick with sweat at the thought of deliberately taunting an evil, restless entity.

Shane's smile could sink a ship. "Well, I guess you're about to find out, now, arentcha?"

A sick type of curiosity can sometimes make a person do things against their better judgement. Like Ryan Bergara, for example, who has decided he values possibly seeing a demon in the flesh more than he does his own life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Eli! Eli! Lama sabachtani?'"_  
>     
>  _("My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?")_  
>  Matthew 27:46

Per Shane's demands, Ryan sits in a library chair, eyes closed, spine bone-straight, head angled toward the floor. He can hear the crisp scratch of matches being lit, and he peers through slitted-eyes to watch Shane light candles. Shane's back is toward him, yet he stops in his tracks whenever Ryan opens his eyes. Just stops and stands there, as if waiting, and as soon as Ryan closes his eyes, he hears the noises again. 

Ryan has the chills and an itching premonition that this has become more than just a bet to prove a point. 

"So, I'm gonna need a run-down of what's going on here," he says, drumming his fingers against his thighs. "Are we summoning someone, o-or some _thing-"_

"Oh, they're not coming to us," says Shane. "You're going to _them."_

Ryan cracks open one eye, skeptical. "See, not only is that _extremely_ ominous, but it also explains absolutely nothing for me."

"Most demons despise spiritual faith. It infuriates them," Shane says, pacing the room. "They were once these powerful, powerful beings- gods themselves, practically- but God knew they had sinister intentions, so he banished 'em to hell. Creatures with the capability to end worlds, and he basically sealed them away like leftovers in a Tupperware container. Imagine how that must feel."

"They're big, but God will always be bigger," Ryan says in slow realization. He glances up. "Right?"

Shane points at Ryan. "Bingo. When a person worships God, it's a jab at a demon. They don't like knowing their greatest enemy is getting all the attention while they're stuck in the pits. So," Shane says, "I'm gonna open a spiritual gateway, and what _you're_ gonna do is make it painfully obvious that the demons have absolutely no power over you whatsoever, and that the only thing you have to fear is Christ Almighty."

"Can demons tell when you're lying?" Ryan asks, voice squeaking. 

"Sometimes," Shane says, without missing a beat, "so try to act convincing." He claps, which is currently high on Ryan's list of Things Shane Madej Does which Lead to Other Things That Nothing Good Can Come From. "Now, no more talking, no more thoughts. Clear your mind."

"Okay." Ryan breathes deep, rubs his hands on his thighs, and closes his eyes once more. "Oookay. Mind officially cleared."

"Now, I want you to take a deep breath in," Shane begins, "and I want you to hold it, and I want you to repeat this mantra in your head."

Ryan inhales through his nose and holds the breath, silent. 

"I fear God and God alone." 

The words echo in Ryan's head and mingle with the blood pounding in his ears. He hears Shane blowing out candles one by one and fights back the urge to open his eyes, focusing instead on the phrases Shane lists off:

"My spirit belongs solely to the heavenly Father, for I am his faithful and discreet slave." 

"I was created in his image. He shall never abandon me, even when it may seem as though I am the only living soul in the whole world.

Ryan shifts, uncomfortable, hands fidgeting between his knees.

"I leave my soul is in his hands. No other force can shake me," Shane finishes. "Now, stand up. And if you want breathe now, you can." 

At the word 'breathe,' Ryan gasps, gulping up greedy lungfuls of air. "If I _want_ to breathe?" he pants. "No, I'm... good, I'm fine. I'll... I'll just wait awhile longer till my fucking lungs collapse, thanks."

He waits for some smart-mouthed retort to come, but, surprisingly, there is none. Ryan smells smoke.

"Alright, Madej, I'm waiting for step two," Ryan says, frowning. He grows tense when he receives no answer. There's a sudden ringing in his ears. "Shane? C'mon, man, quit dicking around."

"Open your eyes," a voice says, and Ryan can't distinguish whether it belongs to Shane or something else.

In the beginning, the Bible teaches, God created the heavens and the Earth, and, on the seventh day, he rested. In just six days, he created vast oceans, living creatures, swirling galaxies. God created all the known and unknown things of the universe in less than a week, and, satisfied with his work, he rested on the last day. Or so says the holy book.

But Ryan stands in a place that challenges this theory, a place that makes him think, maybe God left his work unfinished. Maybe God had forgotten a piece of his creation and left it behind. 

There is nothing here. Darkness all around him, Ryan realizes with a swivel of his head.

"Shane?" Ryan calls out. His voice echoes, loud and hollow, and his hands fly to his lips. He remembers Shane's words- _"You're going to them,"_ Shane had told him- and a panic quickly sets in. Something clutches Ryan's rapidly palpitating heart and refuses to release its grip. 

For a few moments he stands, stiff as a board, and blinks into the darkness, praying his eyes will adjust. When the void does not yield, he pinches his arm. He runs a hand through his hair. He counts to ten and presses his fingers to his neck and reminds himself that he's still all _there._ Once the fear dies down, he reaches into his pocket in stunned slowness and, to his surprise, pulls out his tape recorder. He pats his other pocket and feels his cell nestled safely against his thigh, but, _shit,_ he thinks, retrieving it and glancing at the screen, _no signal._

Some half-hysterical part of his brain tells him he wouldn't be able to call for help regardless. 

The flashlight on his phone is useless as well, too dim to cut through the darkness that engulfs him. Dazed, Ryan does the only other thing he can think to do in a time of crisis. He thumbs at the tape recorder in his hand and clicks record.

"I..."

_Breathe._

He shakes his head to clear the brain fog. "I don't know where I am right now," he says slowly. There's a delay in the time it takes for his brain to put words to his situation, but he manages. "It's dark. I'd record some footage on my cell, but it'd be pretty pointless, 'cause from what I can see there's just... nothing."

He takes a few small, tentative steps forward, stretching his arms out in an attempt to find something, _anything,_ but the darkness seemingly has no limit.

"Maybe I'm in purgatory," he adds. 

The thought that Shane might be pulling his leg in some sort of elaborate ruse briefly crosses his mind, accompanied by a fantasy sequence of Shane sharing this humorous anecdote with his congregation- "And the guy _really_ believed holding his breath and repeating some fortune cookie-BS mantra would let him see demons!-" but Ryan's instincts tell him otherwise. There's an ever-persistent nagging in the back of his head, telling him that wherever he is, he's definitely not in the church- and he might not be alone, either. 

__

So he makes a game plan. First step, find out where the nothingness ends. _Then everything else will fall into place,_ he tells himself, though whether or not he believes it is another story. His feet are bolted in place, terrified by thoughts of what he might come across if he moves forward.

__

An idea forms in Ryan's head. He digs into his pocket once more, giving a silent cheer when he finds a handful of loose change, and returns the rest of the coins to his pocket with the exception of one penny.

__

"I'm going to try something," he says aloud, the tape recorder his ever-captivated audience.

__

Ryan stares as far as he can into the darkness. He swings his arm back, and, with all the strength he can muster, he flings the coin into the unknown. 

__

It doesn't make it far. To his surprise, the penny bounces off of the nothingness with a smack and drops like a fly. He can hear the telltale clink as it clatters to the ground somewhere nearby.

 _Congratulations, there's something here after all,_ says a facetious voice from the far reaches of Ryan's subconscious. He swallows, saliva filling his mouth, heart pounding like it's trying to warn him. Dread plummeting to his gut like heavy contents tearing through the bottom of a plastic bag. 

He waits- for noise, for movement, for something other than himself to react to his actions. Then he moves, ever cautious, in the direction of the sound the coin had made.

"Update," he says, voice hushed, "I just threw a coin and it, uh..." He laughs, unnerved, "it just stopped? Like it hit something and fell... only, there's nothing there. I'm _hoping_ there's nothing there. I'm- Jesus, I can't believe... I'm gonna take a closer look." 

__

He turns his phone flashlight on once more and aims it at the ground as he wanders, muttering isms about God and faith to himself. "I am not afraid," he lies, and his voice trembles to accent the fact.

A few more paces forward, and he spots a flint of light only a few feet away.

"Oh, thank God," he breathes, "I found it. I found the coin. Now... now I have to figure out what happened to it." Ryan pauses. "If this is the last thing I ever record... if this tape recorder somehow turns up alongside my lifeless body in a gutter somewhere, from the bottom of my heart, thank you all for accompanying me on this journey. I love you guys; keep searching for the truth. And to Shane Madej, if he's listening to this... fuck you, I guess. Yeah. Alright."

__

He crouches down and inspects the penny, turning it over in his palm. It looks... normal. Unaffected. His eyes travel upward and all he sees is black.

Taking a shaky breath, he reaches out to test the darkness in front of him. His fingers brush against the surface of something that is _not_ air and he jolts back.

__

It's a wall.

__

In a state of delirious curiosity, Ryan reaches out to touch it again. It feels warm, alive. It thrums out a steady vibration that seems to travel through his veins and into his chest. His fingers hesitate, twitching, before he pushes tentatively inward. It's like cellophane; the farther he pushes, the more it stretches. He grimaces at the feeling, but grits his teeth and keeps pushing. He's going to see what's on the other side. Needs to. 

__

The thrum of the wall gets louder, an audible hum now, and Ryan pauses to press his ear against it. His stomach sinks when he hears voices, garbled, unintelligible, so deep and low the wall rumbles from the reverb. 

__

Paling, Ryan slowly inches back.

__

And the wall follows him.

__

Something from the other side is reaching out to grab him. First one hand, then another, then _dozens,_ pushing frantically against the barrier. The wall stretches like elastic as gnarled limbs like tree branches twist and thrash against it. Then a face slowly sinks itself into the wall, furrowed brow and curled lips imprinting a painful scowl into the black, like a body smothered tight against a plastic trash bag. 

__

"Shhhhhhhh- haaaaaaahhh-" 

__

It draws out the sound, breath snagging on croaks and creaks deep within its throat, and, with chilling realization, Ryan understands what it is trying to say. 

__

"Shane," Ryan utters.

__

The wall _screams,_ grappling for something to latch onto. It makes a sickening squelching sound, like parasites worming around inside something rotten.

__

Ryan's stomach lurches and he stumbles back. The sight is like something out of a macabre painting, a sea of bodies drowned in tar and scrambling to escape. 

__

"Shane!" the voices shriek in unison, and Ryan hears them echo in his head, clawing at his skull. "We've waited! Give him to us! Give him back!"

__

Ryan's heart leaps into his throat. His grip falters, and the recorder falls from his sweaty palms. He jolts at the sudden clatter before quickly snatching the device off the ground. "Who's here with me right now?" he calls out instinctively. "Wh-what are you?"

__

The laugh that follows is barely a laugh at all, hoarse and hollow like a gust of wind through a drain pipe. "You know! You know what we are!" comes the distorted reply, "and we are many!"

__

The hairs on Ryan's neck stand on end. This isn't like an EVP recording, or the robotic chatter of his spirit box, fragments of speech clipped together to form bits of phrases. These voices are crystal clear, and they're in his head, harsh and rattling.

"Can you... can you tell me why you're here?" he manages. He's backing away all the while, eyes wide in horror as the wall rolls and ripples like waves. "Can you tell me where here _is?"_

__

"Here is nothing. You are nowhere, and we are on the other side." The voice lowers, the hands retract, almost in chagrin. "Trapped. Kept us here... so long, so long."

__

"Someone did this to you?" Silence from the other side. Hands paw gingerly at the wall, wistful. Ryan hesitates, inhales shakily. "Was it... was it God?"

__

A painful screech rips through the surface, and a pair of hands shoot out in his direction. Ryan ducks, but not soon enough. The wall has him by his neck, yanks him toward itself. The force knocks the breath from his gut as hands constrict around his throat, holding him tight against the wall. 

__

"Forsaken!" one voice screams at him, and the other voices cry out in agreement. _Abandoned! He left us! He did! My god... forsaken us!_

__

Hands, hands, hands all over, yanking his hair, gripping his wrists, his legs, his neck. Ryan thrashes against the hold. His face is flush against the wall, which seems to pull him closer with every second. He struggles for breath, eyes watering, drool running down his chin as he tries to pry the claws from his throat.

"God had no love for us," one of the demons rasps, hot against Ryan's ear, "but then, we had Shane. And from him, we made our own god. Our own golden calf, forged by fire, and worshipped by kin."

"But his vision," another continues, and there are _fingers_ , touching his eyes and prying open the lids, "was warped by God. And as God betrayed his son, so too did Shane betray us." 

__

Through hazy consciousness, Ryan feels a hand leave his throat to grip his chin. All the other voices die down to a low murmur, except one. "Shane is gone from here," it says, "but you could take his place, _Ryan._ You can stay. Tear the wall. Set us free."

_Join us. Free. Set us free. Free, free, free, now, NOW, RYAN._

__

Ryan can feel a warm, buzzing static spreading behind his eyes and into his brain. The fear is gone now, replaced with delirium, and in a moment of bravery in the face of impending death, he twists up his face in what he hopes is a menacing snarl and he sputters out, "I'd have to be... have to be batshit insane to join you _monsters."_ He chokes on the word, and draws another strangled breath before rasping, "Think he left you in there... for a reason. A-and I think... you deserve to _fffucking_ rot in there."

__

Expecting a litany of hands or an animalistic scream signaling the end of his life, Ryan is taken aback when his captors release him. He collapses on the ground in a heaving, coughing heap, lungs on fire. A burble of hysterical laughter escapes the wall, burbling like a stream. 

__

"Well, go tell Shane!" the voices leer. "Tell him, okay! Tell him it's time! And then it will be your turn!" 

__

Snapped from his daze, Ryan staggers back, tripping over his feet as he turns to run. His feet carry him for what seem like miles, every direction leading to nowhere. He stops only to catch his breath, the tightness of his chest constricting him like a snake. 

__

_"Shane,"_ he pleads hoarsely, voice choked from the onslaught of tears. His knees find the ground and he folds, arms wrapping around himself in a last resort of defense. "Holy fuck, Shane, get me out of here, _please_ get me out."

__

"Ryan."

He bolts upright when he can hear Shane's voice in his ears, in his head, "Ryan. You're okay, you're alright. Just wake up."

__

"Wake up? What the hell does that mean?" Ryan demands, whipping around to search for the source of Shane's voice, and a burst of hot-white flashes in his skull.

__


End file.
